It is a perfect Sunday evening out on the southern end of the Llano Estacado.
The sun slipped below the western horizon 49 minutes prior along an azimuth of 253 degrees measured from a point along Nolan County Road 182 just west of Roscoe, Texas. The moon, though not quite full, is radiant, spectacular, casting a beautiful glow upon the landscape.
Big turbine blades rush through the air, their tips reaching 70mph in a benevolent whoosh-whoosh as the constant wind supplies power to the grid. In an ever-darkening sky, the red lights atop their masts blink off and on in a synchronized harmony that stretches for nearly as far as the eye can see in all directions.
A westbound Norfolk Southern visitor holds the UP mainline just back of the west switch of Roscoe siding, the throb of four-stroke diesel prime movers at idle rumbles gentle over the quiet cotton fields; patient, restrained horsepower holding against a red block ahead as the air governor spits out its occasion hiss.
There’s a monster intermodal train heading east on the old Texas & Pacific somewhere over the hill at Loraine, its 3+1 consist of GEs and EMDs laboring hard through the nautical twilight on the single-track Toyah Subdivision towards a crew change at Sweetwater.
We wait.
The annual pilgrimage to Roscoe is nearing its end.
For whatever reason, I am drawn each fall to Roscoe, a pilgrimage of sorts to see the cotton fields just before harvest, and to see if an old SW8 still haunts the last segment of the old Roscoe, Snyder & Pacific where it ends in the sands of Nolan County two-and-a-half miles west of the Eagle Railcar facility.
This is where the very southern end of the Llano Estacado dies without a fight; no palisades or barrancas, no colorful canyons carved out by some stream or river that no longer flows. The red sandy soils just give up the ghost without a whimper. The farther south one travels from Roscoe, the land becomes a bit more broken and ragged as the limestone scarp of the Edwards Plateau begins to rule the landscape with a bit more authority, and will do so all the way down until it makes a last stand at the crescent-shaped Balcones Escarpment near San Antonio.
As with last year’s pilgrimage, the sought after shot across the billowy white cotton fields was once again elusive.
As with last year, and the year before, we pivoted but did not punt.
We were light in our thinking and pointed our lenses at other things, and as always made the best of the day.
And now, for all practical intents and purposes, the light is nearly gone.
And still we wait, if for no other reason than just to see what happens, unwilling yet to face the torrent of Sunday evening traffic out on Interstate 20 on our journey back to Midland.
The eastward signal goes from yellow to green.
On a whim, we extend the legs of the tripod and set it on the edge of the black top and then affix one of the Nikons; the one with the big wide-angle lens.
Get the big spotlight out, pick a spot on the rail, light it up and pull a focus
Vibration reduction OFF.
Auto focus OFF.
6 miles to the west a headlight finally shines over the crest of Loraine Hill, then the blare of distant trumpets rolls over the South Plains.
And that old thrill; the anticipation---it never gets old.
We’ll have time for maybe two frames at best.
The ground rumbles and the beast howls.
She’s on us! Three big units on the headend slowing for a meet.
For 1.6 seconds the shutter is open, letting in the pinpricks of light emitted from all the heavenly bodies that drift lazily throughout the evening sky---
Man-made satellites blinking as they ply the route along their planned orbit, beaming invisible signals earthward to provide Sunday NFL viewing pleasure on wide-screen TVs perched upon the man cave wall---
Others are as old as time itself, decorating the cosmos above the South Plains in a fantastic array of constellations that mere mortals still stand in awe of today, us included.
In the bright moonlight is captured the shadow of a Nikon on top of a tripod.
What fun!
A thrill indeed, and the second frame is the one we’ll make a keepsake of.
We’ll watch the meet in its entirety; the eastbound FRED slipping through the turnout and fully into the clear, and the big black NS units putting on a show as they get the hell out of town smartly. They’ll not break a sweat on the .76 percent grade of Loraine Hill.
In no time at all they’re out of sight.
We’ll stow the gear in the back seat of the pickup and slide into town for a large cup of coffee from the Allsup’s convenience store to help with the long drive home.
But Roscoe, Texas never really disappoints.
And the SW8?
---RAM
Rick Malo©2025